Chapter 14
Izzy
"Tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing."
Wesley Cahill's voice crackles through my phone as I spread financial documents across Sergei's dining table. It's been four days since The Plaza, four days of barely sleeping while my husband makes bodies disappear, and I dive into Uncle Matthew's dirty money.
"I'm looking at publicly available records," I lie. The screen in front of me shows offshore accounts that definitely aren't public. "Perfectly legal."
"Bullshit. I can hear you clicking through firewalls." He sighs, heavy and resigned. "At least tell me you're using a VPN."
"Three of them." I zoom in on a transaction flagged in red. Two million dollars moving from one of Matthew's shell companies to an account in the Caymans. Same week Dad died. "Wesley, look at the date on this transfer."
Silence stretches. Then, "Christ. That's five days before the explosion."
Cold spreads through my chest. "Payment for services rendered?"
"Or payment in advance." His keyboard clicks in the background. "I'm sending you a list of names connected to that Cayman account. Cross-reference them with known fixers."
The email arrives thirty seconds later. I scan the list and my vision narrows when I recognize one name: Ivan Olegov, Bratva enforcer, specializing in making deaths look accidental. Boats, cars, falls from high places.
Uncle Matthew hired a hitman to kill my father.
"I need eyes on him," I tell Wesley. "Matthew. Twenty-four-seven surveillance. Where he goes, who he meets, everything."
"You sure about this? If he catches you digging—"
"He already tried to kill me once. Maybe twice." The memories of the attacks in the park and charity luncheon play on repeat behind my eyelids. "I'm done being scared."
"Alright. I'll have someone on him by tonight. But Izzy?" His voice drops. "Watch your back. Men like Ashford don't go down easy."
I hang up and stare at the spreadsheet, tracing money that funded my father's murder. Rage burns through my chest, hot and consuming. Matthew sat at the funeral with his fake condolences, touched my arm with hands stained in Dad's blood, and I didn't see it.
The front door opens. Sergei walks in carrying takeout bags, his eyes immediately finding me at the table. He takes in my expression, the scattered documents, the white knuckled grip on the lighter.
"What did you find?" He sets down the food and moves behind me, hands settling on my shoulders.
"Proof." I pull up the transaction records. "Two million dollars, five days before the explosion. Paid to a shell company owned by Ivan Olegov."
His fingers tighten on my shoulders. "Olegov. Bratva cleanup specialist. Makes problems disappear."
"Like boat explosions that look like gas leaks?"
"Exactly like that. This is enough to take to the police."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "The police? Matthew has judges in his pocket, senators on speed dial. By the time any charges stick, I'll be dead, too."
"Not while I'm breathing. But you're right. Police won't work. We need leverage. Destroy him before he can retaliate."
"I told Wesley to tail him." I tilt my head back, meeting his eyes. "If Matthew's dirty enough to kill Dad, he's dirty in other ways, too. I find his secrets, I own him."
Sergei's mouth curves in a way that's too dark to be called a smile. "That's my girl."
The praise sends warmth flooding through me despite everything. I stand and his hands slide to my waist, anchoring me.
"Mila's at Elena's until next Friday," he says, reading my mind like he always does. "We have a week and a half."
"A week and a half to what? Dig through Matthew's entire life?"
"To make him regret touching what's mine." He cups my face, thumb tracing my jaw. "Starting with finding every skeleton in his closet."
I should probably mention that I'm not actually his, that this marriage is temporary, that eventually, the clause expires and we go our separate ways. But standing here in his arms with his eyes burning into mine, I can't remember why any of that matters.
"Okay. Let's destroy my uncle."
Forty-eight hours later, I'm sitting in a rented sedan across from Circo, one of Manhattan's oldest Italian restaurants. The kind of place where mob bosses used to settle disputes over osso buco, where private rooms guarantee discretion.
Wesley's guy, Tony, built like a brick wall with a camera, sits in the driver's seat. We've been following Matthew all day. His office, his apartment, a meeting with his lawyers. Nothing unusual until now.
"Movement," Tony says, adjusting his lens. "Black Mercedes pulling up."
I watch through the tinted windows as Uncle Matthew steps out, straightening his suit. He's smiling, that cold politician's smile that never reaches his eyes. The valet takes his keys.
Then the passenger door opens and my world tilts sideways.
Mother.
Catherine Davenport emerges wearing sapphire silk that clings to her perfect figure, ash-blonde hair swept up to expose her neck. She's laughing at something Matthew said, her hand finding his arm with casual intimacy.
I watch, frozen, as he leans close to whisper in her ear. As her fingers trail down his lapel. As he presses his palm to her lower back, too low, too familiar, and guides her into the restaurant.
"Well, shit," Tony mutters. "That's not a business dinner."
My throat closes. Can't think past the roaring in my ears. Mother and Uncle Matthew. Together. How long has this been going on? Years? Did Dad know?
Did Dad die because of this?
My fingers find the lighter in my pocket, flipping it open. Click snap. Click snap. The familiar motion grounds me, keeps me from screaming or vomiting or both.
"I need photos," I hear myself say, voice hollow. "Everything. Every touch, every look. I need proof."
Tony's already shooting. "You got it. But Izzy? Your mother—"
"Is a lying, cheating, murdering bitch." The words taste like acid. "Apparently."
I watch them disappear into the restaurant's private entrance. Watch the door close behind them, sealing them away in their secret world built on my father's corpse.
The lighter burns hot in my hand. I look down and realize I've been flicking it open and closed so violently, my fingertips are blistering from the heat. But I can't stop. Can't let go.
My phone rings. Sergei.
"Where are you?" His voice is tight with concern. "You were supposed to check in an hour ago."
"Circo. Matthew just walked in with my mother." The words come out flat, emotionless. Shock, probably. "They're together, Sergei. Romantically. I watched her touch him like—" I can't finish.
"I'm coming to you."
"No. Stay home." I close the lighter, pocketing it before I burn myself worse. "I need to see this through. Need to know if she, if they—"
"Kotyonok." His voice softens, that endearment wrapping around me even through the phone. "Whatever you're thinking, don't spiral. Wait for me."
"I'm not spiraling." I am absolutely spiraling. "I'm documenting. There's a difference."
"Isabelle—"
"She was married to him. My father. For thirty years." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "And she's fucking his brother-in-law. The same man who killed him."
"You don't know that she knew—"
"Don't I?" I laugh, brittle and sharp. "She panicked when I told her about us. She tried to get me to annul the marriage. She knew Matthew was dangerous because she's been in bed with him. Literally."
Tony shifts uncomfortably in the driver's seat, pretending he can't hear every word.
"I'm on my way. Stay in the car. Do not confront them."
"I won't—"
"Promise me."
I stare at the restaurant entrance, at the warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, and imagine walking through that door. Finding their private room. Watching my mother's face when she realizes I know.
But Sergei's right. I can't confront them. Not yet. Not without a plan that doesn't end with me dead or Matthew disappearing before I can prove what he's done.
"I promise," I whisper.
"Good. Fifteen minutes."
He hangs up. I sit in the rented sedan, watching steam rise from a subway grate, watching people hurry past with their normal problems. My fingers itch for the lighter again, but I force my hands to stay still.
Tony's camera keeps clicking. Each shot is another nail in my mother's coffin.
The affair explains everything. Matthew's hovering presence after Dad's death, Mother's eagerness to marry me off to Cal, their coordinated control. They wanted me compliant, married to someone they could manipulate, while they divided Dad's empire between them.
And when I married Sergei instead, when I chose someone dangerous they couldn't buy or threaten, I became a problem.
My parents' marriage was cold, distant. I knew that. But I thought they had some baseline of respect, some shared history that mattered.
I was wrong.
A black SUV pulls up behind us. Sergei climbs out, moving toward my door. He opens it, and I tumble into his arms before conscious thought kicks in.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my hair, strong arms wrapping around me. "Let it out."
But I can't. If I start crying now, I won't stop. So I just stand there in his embrace, breathing him in, while my world continues crumbling.
"We're going to make them pay," Sergei says quietly. "Both of them. For your father. For what they tried to do to you. I promise."
I pull back enough to meet his eyes. Grey and storm-dark and absolutely serious.
"Not pay," I correct. "Burn. I want to burn them to the ground."
"Then we burn them, kotyonok. Together."
From the car, I hear Tony clear his throat. "Uh, folks? They're coming out."
We turn. Matthew and Mother emerge from the restaurant, his hand possessive on her waist. She's smiling up at him, and even from here, I can see the flush in her cheeks, the satisfied glow of a woman who just—
I look away before I vomit.
Sergei's hand finds mine, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Anchoring me. "Remember the promise. Not yet."
"Not yet," I agree.
We watch my mother climb into Matthew's Mercedes. Watch them drive away into the Manhattan night, two killers who think they've won.
But they haven't.
Because they don't know what I know. They don't realize I've hired a PI, cracked their financial records, documented their affair. They underestimate the girl who's supposed to be controllable, manageable, weak.
And they definitely underestimate the monster she married.
I pull out the lighter one more time. The metal's still warm from my earlier burning grip. I flip it open, watching the flame catch in the darkness.
"To Dad," I whisper.
Sergei's arm wraps around my shoulders, solid and sure. "To Richard. And to making his killers pay."
The flame flickers but doesn't die.
Neither will I.